The Writer
by Laurensdy
Summary: <html><head></head>The BAU has some unexpected company on their next case. TW: Suicide</html>
1. Chapter 1

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." -Anias Nin

Reid flinched slightly as a balled-up piece of loose-leaf paper tapped his forehead before landing on his desk. Glancing up, he saw Morgan and Prentiss failing to disguise a snicker.

"Morning, Kid." Morgan chuckled, flashing a grin. "How was your weekend?"

"Short," Reid quipped, his eyebrows crinkling as he sipped his coffee. "Yours?"

Morgan shrugged, "Same old, same old." He raised his own mug to his lips. "Hey, who's that?"

Looking up, Reid noticed whom Morgan was asking about. The pair noticed JJ leading a young girl through the BAU, gesturing to desks and keeping her close. The girl, not looking a day over nineteen, clutched a spotted black-and-white composition notebook to her chest, glancing wondrously around. As JJ led her closer to Morgan and Reid, the girl bit her lower lip nervously, her tan eyebrows rising as her gaze surveyed the room.

"She looks way too young to be a colleague," Reid mused.

"Really, Reid?" Morgan asked dryly. Reid looked over flatly. "They day you walked in here you didn't look old enough to cross the street." Prentiss smiled, quickly bringing a hand over her face to stifle her laughter. Reid opened his mouth to protest when Morgan continued, "Hotch made sure everyone called you _Doctor_ so we wouldn't get laughed off the crime scene."

"Still," Reid said tersely, "she looks a little green."

"And if she were an agent she'd be with Hotch," Prentiss confirmed. "Maybe it's a new intern?"

"We don't usually get intern chicks in here," Morgan countered, leaning forward. "JJ!" he called. "Who's your friend?"

JJ smiled nervously at them, opening her mouth before she was sure of what to say. "I—I'll let Hotch explain it to you." Before any of them could reply, she swept the unknown girl away, flashing Morgan a second nervous grin.

The girl's watery blue eyes met Reid's. Her pale face lowered slightly, and the corners of her mouth turned up. She gripped her notebook tighter, and Reid heard himself gulp.

"Whoa," Morgan exclaimed after the pair was out of earshot, "down, boy."

Reid shot him a glare as Hotch appeared in his office doorway. "Guys—I've got some news for you."

"Here we go," said Prentiss, rising from her desk.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hotch," Rossi said, sinking into one of the leather chairs in the conference room, "what's this all about?"

"That new girl, I'm guessing," Prentiss gauged, entering the room ahead of Morgan and Reid. "Since when do interns work with the BAU?"

"She's not an intern," Hotch admitted, "She's a writer."

"A writer?" Morgan asked, drawing himself a chair. "What's a writer doing hanging around here?"

Hotch exhaled. "That's what I have to tell you all about." He lowered himself into his own chair. "Strauss received a request from the White House to," he paused, searching for the correct word, "raise morale."

"Peoples' faith in the government?" Reid clarified.

Hotch gave a curt nod. "She seemed to think it would be a point of public interest to publish something on what the most…interesting…units of the Bureau are like."

"She's right," Rossi mused. "People come from miles around to hear me talk about what we do."

"At any rate," Hotch rubbed at his temple. "We're under quite a bit of an obligation to…"

"To honor that request." Reid finished.

"To let some reporter follow us around like a paparazzi?" Morgan rephrased.

"Not a reporter," Hotch clarified, "an author."

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "An _author_?" He glanced toward the doorway. "_Her?_ You gotta be kidding me, Hotch."

"She doesn't even look old enough to have graduated college," Prentiss continued. "Where the hell did Strauss even find her?"

"Actually," Garcia began, floating into the room in a flower-print dress, "it probably wasn't that hard." She brought a manila folder over to Hotch, opening it on the table in front of him. "Her name's Chloe. She's twenty-two, and her first novel ranked seventeenth on the New York Times' bestseller list for a few weeks."

Morgan snorted. "Strauss couldn't spring for sixteenth?"

"Actually, there are almost 300,000 books published each year in the U.S.," Reid rocked back in his chair, "anything ranked better than one hundred is considered extremely good writing."

"Regardless," Hotch said, "today is her first day."

"Of following us around and writing down everything we do?" Prentiss asked.

"Of…" Hotch raised his eyebrows and closed his eyes. "…of observing and taking notes for the published profile of the BAU."

"Morning, guys," JJ walked slowly into the room. The girl, Chloe, followed meekly behind her, looking from Morgan to Hotch with apprehensive eyes. "Looks like we're just in time."

Hotch stood up and reached forward to shake Chloe's hand. Having to let go of her composition notebook, she shifted uncomfortably. "I'm Aaron Hotchner." He gestured to the team members as he introduced them. "This is Emily Prentiss, David Rossi, Derek Morgan, technical analyst Penelope Garcia, and Dr. Spencer Reid." Chloe's blue-grey eyes lingered on Reid, giving a weak smile. "You've already met Jennifer Jareau, our press liaison."

"I'm Chloe," she drew her arm back to her notebook nervously, "Hi, everybody."

"Now that everyone's up to speed, let's get some things straight," Hotch continued seriously. JJ moved behind him to the television screen. Chloe swallowed hard, as if she could feel the animosity in the room increase as JJ left her side.

"You are here because of Erin Strauss and the White House," Hotch began. "Not me." He paused. "I am cooperating with my superiors by tolerating you."

Chloe gave a tiny flinch, stung by the harshness of his words, barely disguising her shock with a small nod. Reid watched as her jaw tightened minutely, bracing herself not to cry.

"This isn't some pet project for you to creatively run with," Hotch said tightly. "This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation, not a celebrity biography."

"I understand, sir," Chloe said quietly, nodding. Reid looked at Rossi, empathizing with the frightened girl. The two of them looked at Hotch, but he wouldn't meet their gaze.

"Every page of that notebook of yours will go through me," Hotch continued, pointing at the composition book in her arms. "And you will show me everything you write before it goes anywhere else."

Her head retracted slightly, nodding again. "Yes. I—I will."

"We see some of the most evil, unforgiving acts in this room," Hotch said, a little less harshly. "You need to not only be mindful of the confidentiality in this line of work, but you also need to develop a thick skin."

"I—I am, sir," Chloe said. "Believe me, sir, it's growing thicker by the second."

Hotch pressed his lips together. Rossi leaned forward, shooting a quick glance at Hotch to make sure he'd back off. "Why don't you have a seat?" Rossi asked quietly. "We're about to be briefed on a case."

Chloe nodded, taking a seat in the straight-backed chair by the door. When Reid looked back over at the girl, he saw her smile gratefully at Rossi, mouthing a _Thank you_.


	3. Chapter 3

Morgan looked back at the girl, who sat crouched over her notebook. She scrawled quickly with a black fountain pen, not looking up when JJ clicked the large television on.

"This is from Gadot Falls, Montana. Howard Walker, 32," JJ pulled up a grotesque photo. "He was found last month in his car, single gunshot wound to the head. No shells were recovered, and nothing had been taken from Walker or his car."

"Looks like a nine millimeter," Reid mused, "if there are no shells…probably a revolver."

"Phil Hogan, 29," JJ pulled up another photograph, "also shot in the head, and also found in his car—two weeks ago."

Reid glanced over at Chloe. She stared wide-eyed at the screen, swallowing hard as her right hand froze, the black pen hovering over the paper.

Morgan leaned forward. "Same signature. Same M.O."

"And yesterday," JJ pulled up a third picture, "42-year-old George Koch was found dead in _his_ car, also shot in the head."

"So our UnSub is attacking every two weeks," Rossi concluded. "We don't have a lot of time."

"Are there any connections between the victims?" Hotch asked.

"Walker was a crime-beat reporter for the local paper," JJ twirled the remote in her hand, eyeing Chloe. "Hogan was a syndicated columnist for a few magazines, and Koch was the county historian—he's released compilations of the history of Gadot for the past four years."

"They were all writers," Reid said slowly. He watched Chloe's eyes slowly rise to the screen. She sat transfixed for a moment, and then noticed his and Morgan's eyes lingering on her, and nervously dropped her gaze back to the notebook.

"Wheels up in thirty minutes," Hotch said, training his stare on Chloe. "I've got to call Strauss to see what to do with you."

The team stood to gather their things. "Nice to meet you, sweetheart," Morgan flashed a white-toothed smile at Chloe as he passed her on his way out the door. "See you when we get back."

"Sorry about him," Reid said warmly. "Hotch, I mean. He—he doesn't like being told what to do."

"Yeah," Chloe shifted her weight. "I gathered that."

"I first came to the F.B.I. when I was twenty-three," he continued, shoving his hands in his pockets, "it's not so bad once you get your feet wet."

"I didn't really get a choice, either, you know," Chloe said flatly. "My literary agent got a call from someone working for the President. It's not exactly something you can turn down."

Reid rocked back and forth on his heels. "That's a lot of pressure. Why you?"

"They thought I was a good writer, I guess," she began, "they wanted someone hot on the scene, and they said…they thought I'd be able to handle it considering what my book was about."

He looked at her, implying a question. "Suicide," she answered for him.

"Reid?" Morgan's head appeared in the doorway. "Did you kids want to visit the sandbox?" he asked, grinning.

Chloe pressed her lips together. "It's hard enough knowing nobody wants me here," she said tersely. "The least you could do is not be a total jerk."

"Hey," Morgan said seriously, bringing a hand to her shoulder. "I'm sorry—I was only joking." She glared at him for a moment. "Really," he continued, "I really was just kidding."

"Your boss isn't," she muttered, shrugging his hand off. "I've been here twenty minutes, and he hates my guts."

"He doesn't hate—" Morgan began, stopping when he heard Hotch's angry footsteps nearing them. He leaned back on the doorframe, seeing his unit chief storming down the hallway. "Hang on."

He met Hotch halfway down the hall. "What's up?"

"Where's the girl?" Hotch asked tensely. "The writer—where is she?"

"In there, with Reid," Morgan thumbed over to the conference room. "Why?"

"She needs to pack a go-bag." He said, trying to move around Morgan.

"Wait, what?" Morgan moved to keep between Hotch and the conference room.

"I just talked to Strauss. She wants her to—" he raised his fingers—"observe us in the field."

"But that's way too dangerous," Morgan said seriously. "What if something happens?"

"She seems to think we can handle her presence at the field office," Hotch said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I suppose it'll be fine, if she keeps her mouth shut and stays where she's told to stay."

Hotch stepped around Morgan, striding quickly toward the conference room.

"Hey, Hotch," Morgan called. Hotch turned, raising his eyebrows. "Go easy on the kid." When Hotch's forehead crinkled, he continued. "It's not her fault, you know?"

Hotch nodded, sliding his eyelids closed and turning around.

"Chloe," Hotch eclipsed the doorway. "You need to pack a few things." The girl stared at him, squinting. "You're coming with us to Montana."


	4. Chapter 4

"Garcia, what have you got?" Hotch asked, setting the laptop on the jet's small table.

"These guys don't have a lick in common other than their occupations and where they were dumped," Garcia shook her head. "Hogan and Koch were both from Gadot, and Walker lived in a neighboring town."

"We know it's someone who has a beef with writers," Morgan said. "Maybe their families will be able to tell us more." He looked over at Chloe, who seemed a bit more relaxed than she had before. She scribbled furiously in the composition book.

"Writing is a broad field, and so are the occupations of our victims," Rossi said, leaning forward. "There has to be a personal aspect behind these crimes."

"Usually criminals are upset with the reporters of their stories because they believe it wasn't correct," Reid said, looking up from the topographical map he was drawing on. "This UnSub might have had encounters with the victims, upset that a story he needed to tell wasn't being told the way he wanted it to be."

"Garcia," Hotch said toward the computer. "Access the records of the publications these men were involved in. Maybe their common subjects will tell us more about who might have had motive."

"As you wish," Garcia said, exiting the video chat.

"Prentiss," Hotch began, closing the laptop, "you and I will go to Walker's home. Chances are the first victim will have had the highest amount of intercourse with the UnSub. Morgan, I want you and Rossi to visit the crime scene—speak to anyone who might have seen anything, and also officers about the other dump sites."

He turned. "Reid and JJ, you go to the field office and brief the officers about what we've got so far. And _you_," Chloe looked up, "go with them, and stay at the police station." The girl nodded. "You are not to leave that field office—do you understand me?"

"Hotch," Morgan said admonishingly.

"I—I do," Chloe said. "I understand."

"Good," Hotch said, eyeing Morgan and standing up. "We've got another 45 minutes until landing."

"I read your book," Reid said, moving closer to Chloe after Hotch walked away.

The girl looked at him incredulously. "It's only been a few hours."

"Yeah," Morgan shot, "he does that."

Reid smiled sheepishly. "It, uh, I really liked it. Very dark, though."

"Not half as dark as what you people do for a living," she said. "I, uh, wanted to do something that could raise awareness about mental illness in teens."

Reid nodded. "That's admirable."

She shrugged. "I figured it might as well be me; I kind of have a lot of experience on the subject." She gave him a knowing gaze, telling him something without saying it. He returned the stare, telling her that he, too, had experience on the subject. "It's scary, the feeling—the desire—to end your own life."

Out of the corner of his eye, Reid looked at Chloe's arms. Thin white scars trailed the skin on her pale forearms, angry diagonal slashes from years past etched overtop of one another. "It's definitely important to, uh, raise awareness about that," he said, glancing out the window.

"Should I be worried about going with you guys?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Not at all," Reid shook his head. "We're pretty sure this UnSub had a personal conflict with each of the three victims. Also, his M.O. is to shoot them in their cars—which you don't have."

She stared at him blankly. "So he only kills _specific_ writers?" Reid nodded. "How are you guys able to look at stuff like this every day—seeing nothing but the absolute worst in people?"

Reid cleared his throat. "By…by catching as many of them as we can."

"But doesn't that…take a toll on your faith in humanity?"

He pressed his lips together, looking away.

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "My agent said I need to learn when to turn off Sylvia Plath—guess I'm still working on it."

He smiled. "Did you know Sylvia Plath actually demanded to her brother that _The Bell Jar_ never be published in the United States?"

She nodded. "She knew the people she based it off of would know it was them and be really hurt."

She wrote something in the composition book. Reid leaned forward, trying to see what it said.

"No peeking," she said, turning away from him. "It's not ready."

"Reid," Morgan called, turning toward them. "Come over here and kick my ass at cards."

Reid smiled, glancing over at Chloe. She was lost in her notebook, bringing her knees into her chest.

"Go ahead," she said, looking up momentarily. "The best stuff is going to come out of when everyone finally forgets I'm here."


	5. Chapter 5

"Officer Jenson," JJ began as they neared the police chief, "I'm Jennifer Jareau, this is Dr. Spencer Reid, and this is Chloe—she's a writer traveling to do a piece on the B.A.U."

The cop shook their hands. "We have to move quickly—there's another body."

Reid scrunched his eyebrows. "But the M.O. is every two weeks. Are you sure it's the same UnSub?"

Jenson nodded, drawing a photograph from atop a nearby table. "Positive," he said, showing the three of them. A man lay in a puddle of his own blood, a .22 caliber entry wound visible in his right temple. "This guy—Ed Worth—he's a local reporter. He covered the murders, and we found him this morning."

Reid stared hard at the picture. "But what makes you sure—"

"We also found this," Jenson cut him off, holding up a second photograph.

A brick wall cracked and weathered with age, read _**Get it Right**_ above where Worth's body lay. The graffiti, amateur and hesitant, was written in Worth's blood.

JJ inhaled, standing up straighter. "How soon can we hold a press conference?"

"Nobody will show up," Jenson shook his head. "Once everyone found out the guy is after reporters, they scattered like roaches under a fridge."

"But this guy is only after _specific_ people," Reid clarified. "We're certain the UnSub had a personal relationship with each of the victims—this last one is probably out of frustration."

"That he didn't get the story right," Chloe chimed in. Reid spun around, surprised at her input.

"Right," he said slowly, nodding. "I'm going to set up over here."

"I'll call Hotch," JJ said, pulling out her cell. "Let them know there's another crime scene to check out."

Chloe followed Reid over to the other side of the tiny Gadot Police Department headquarters. "There has to be something all of these guys reported on that someone is really pissed off about," she said, setting her composition notebook on the tabletop.

"Since Koch was the historian," she continued, "and now he's dead, there was probably something that happened a long time ago that Walker reported on, and Hogan was about to do a story about."

Reid stared at her, dragging the evidence board along the far wall. "And Walker was a crime-beat reporter, so it might be something else the UnSub did that they were writing about."

"Or someone he was related to or knew."

Reid scribbled on the whiteboard with one hand, yanking out his phone with the other. "Garcia?"

"Speak to me, Boy Wonder."

"What kinds of articles did Hogan write?"

"Biographies mostly—local celebrities, political analysis, things like that."

"Did he ever do a profile on criminals?"

Garcia typed something. "I have nothing except for a preview for the next issue of _Criminology Monthly_—it was due to come out next month."

"Does it say who Hogan was profiling?"

"The title reads 'The Vindictive Mind of David LaRoe'—which, upon a simple search, finds Mr. LaRoe as a Gadot native and a terror to the great Northwest during the 1960s who killed 14 middle-aged men before he was arrested in Helena and later killed himself in state prison."

Reid scrawled unintelligibly on the whiteboard. "What was LaRoe's M.O.?"

"His method of choice was the same as this guy—single shot to the head with a .22 caliber that left no shells. Only," she continued to type, "he went after child molesters, not reporters."

"Did he have any following while he was in prison? Any relatives, friends?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that one, genius," she quipped, typing furiously. "Turns out 1960s Montana state prison records are rather ad hoc."

"Thanks, Garcia—let me know what you find out."

"Anytime, Junior G-Man," Garcia said warmly before ending the call.

JJ appeared around the corner. "I've got to make a few calls to get the local news here—everyone is spooked out of their minds."

"If you ask me," a local cop said, "he's doing us a favor getting those leeches off our backs."

Reid and JJ looked each other, eyes wide. "This UnSub is killing people," Reid said seriously. "He's doing no favors."

"That's not what I meant," the cop said, "just—it's a lot less pressure, with no reporters around." He stepped forward, sticking out his hand. "I'm Chuck Warren."

"Spencer Reid," he said tersely, exchanging the handshake. "This is Jennifer Jareau and Chloe—she's a writer."

"Really?" Warren's eyebrows rose. "But you don't follow people around like a stalker for a living, do you?"

"What do you think I'm doing here?" she asked.

He rolled back on his feet. "I'm sorry to, uh, have gotten off on the wrong foot here…" his voice trailed off, and he looked back and forth between the three of them. "You have to understand—this is a small town. When LaRoe was here, it just turned the whole place upside down."

"Weren't you only four or five years old when that happened?" Reid asked.

"My dad was a cop," Warren explained. "It never left him, what the media did to him."

"It can get a little stressful," JJ obliged, "but these people are the easiest way to inform the public of what they should be aware of." She eyed Chloe. "Their presence is extremely necessary."

Warren nodded, turning away. "I'll see what I can do to help."


	6. Chapter 6

"Hotch," Reid began when he saw Hotch and Prentiss enter the police department. "Did Walker's family mention anything about David LaRoe?"

"The case made Walker's dad a local celebrity in the '60s and '70s," Prentiss said, tossing her coat on a chair and rubbing her palms on her pant legs. "It's probably what made him want to go into journalism in the first place."

"So our UnSub's family has been in Gadot for generations," Hotch concluded.

"Hogan was targeted because he was going to do a post-mortem profile of La Roe for _Criminology Monthly_," Reid said, drawing arrows on the evidence board. "He—he was probably going to use historical information collected by Koch, or interview him, or something…"

"I think he already did interview him," Morgan piped in, rounding the corner with Rossi. "We found a recorder in the front passenger seat. The tape of the cassette was ripped out and severed."

"But why Walker?" Prentiss asked. "He was only a kid when LaRoe died."

"And who would follow LaRoe enough to want to do this so many years later?" Morgan said, drawing a chair beside Chloe, who flipped a page in her notebook.

"An admirer," Reid mused. "Someone who thought LaRoe was doing a good thing."

"Greetings, my warriors," Garcia erupted, a pop-up filling the screen of a lap-top set up in front of Chloe on the table. "I come bearing news."

"What've you got, Baby Girl?" Morgan greeted her, swiveling the lap-top so the rest of the team could see.

"A chronicle of everything published on David LaRoe," she said quickly, bringing up scanned newspaper articles of his capture and arrest. "Says that evil LaRoe took it upon himself to deliver justice after an incident concerning his young daughter and Paul Harris, one of victims."

"An incident?" Reid questioned.

"It doesn't even sound like Harris did anything wrong," Chloe looked up. "I'd want to kill him, too."

Hotch looked at the girl sharply. "Garcia, was there a public record on child predators in Gadot at that time?"

"I'd have to check, but it's almost a guaranteed no," she said, looking into the Webcam. "There are no prison records from LaRoe's short stay in Helena, and what I can find on any official records are—indiscernible at best."

"If that's true, LaRoe was being helped by someone in the justice system who had access to those records," Morgan said, chin in his hand. "Could be why our UnSub is trying to champion LaRoe."

"Garcia, get a search on the social workers, cops, judges and lawyers when LaRoe was killing," Hotch said. "Find out if any of them had personal issues with the victims, or children the same age as his daughter."

"Oh, captain, my captain, will do!" she smiled, typing a keystroke. "How's the little one doing, by the way?"

Chloe froze, looking up at the screen. "You mean me?" A brief moment passed before she shrugged, "Fine, I guess," and letting her mouth fall in a satisfied smile.

"All right, sweeties, over and out!"

"Garcia has pet names for all of us, Kid," Morgan said, patting her shoulder. "About time you picked one up," he smiled, ruffling Reid's hair. "Usually Reid's the 'Kid' around here."

"I'm still treated like one," he mumbled, smoothing his caramel locks.

"I'm officially 'in,' now, then?" she asked, smiling.

Hotch rapped his papers on the table, organizing them into a crisp pile. Reid and Morgan looked over expectantly, waiting for his answer. "It appears that way."

Jenson and Warren let the door slam behind them, following JJ inside. "That may have been the smallest press conference for a serial killer I've ever done."

"Won't see me complaining," Warren scoffed. "It's better than having morons with tape recorders waiting outside to make a fool outta us."

"He's right," Jenson said, patting Warren on the shoulder to remind him to watch his mouth. "It's a lot less pressure fighting only one party."

"Jenson," Hotch said, stepping forward, "did anyone begin compiling a list of sex offenders in Gadot around the time David LaRoe was killing?"

Jenson rocked back on his heels. "Can't say I have a clue. I can check the file room."

"My daddy started keeping track of the perps back in his day," Warren said. "Helped a lot to create the statewide database they have now."

"How many people had access to your father's records?" Prentiss asked.

Warren shrugged. "Anyone who can get into the file room, I guess."

"Prentiss, Reid," Hotch said, "go with them, see what you can find."

"JJ," Morgan said, opening up a web browser, "Did you give the reporters a copy of Worth's article? If another reporter writes about the killings in the same light, they might be at risk."

"We provided them with copies, but there's only one way to report on crime, really."

Garcia's face popped up on Morgan's lap-top screen. "Comrades!"

"What is it, Baby Girl?"

"Would it be beneficial to know if a news website outside Gadot uploaded a story about the murders earlier today?"

"What does it say?" Morgan asked.

"It's a carbon copy of Worth's—paints the killer as a coward who attacks the noble druids," she paused, realizing nobody would know what she was talking about, "storytellers."

"Who wrote it?" Hotch demanded. "Where does he live?"

Garcia typed furiously. "The brilliant author is…Thomas Gilman. I've tried both his phone numbers—zilch. He's a reporter for the same paper Worth worked for. He's a little ticked that this guy wiped out his friend."

"Well it might've been his death warrant," Morgan said.

"He's a writer," Chloe said, without looking up, "You make a living by never shutting your mouth."

Hotch shot the girl a glare. "You have an address, Garcia?"

"4250 Windmill Road—sending the coordinates to your cell."

"Thanks Garcia—we've got to get out there, fast." The techie's image dissipated from the screen, and Hotch straightened himself to retrieve Prentiss and Reid.

He didn't have to, though, because the two agents were striding toward him with Jenson behind them. "Where's Warren?" Prentiss asked skeptically.

"He went with you," Morgan raised an eyebrow, scooting his chair back.

"He hasn't been with us since he directed us to the file room," Reid countered. "Said he was going to check for any new stories about the murders."

Hotch's eyes widened. "Jenson, where is your officer?"

Jenson shook his head. "I—I don't know…I can page him again, if you'd like."

"You'd better come with us," Hotch said, moving toward the door. "We need to get to a local reporter's house, and we need to get there fast."

Morgan and Prentiss followed the two chiefs, moving quickly. "What made her ask about Warren?" JJ asked, turning to Reid.

"The records Warren's father kept—the child predators that LaRoe targeted had enough information on them for LaRoe to stalk his victims with relative ease—Warren's father was the leak in the system."

"He helped LaRoe?"

Reid nodded. "Warren's the same age as LaRoe's daughter, there's a good chance one of these victims abused Warren as well, and that his father was a friend of LaRoe's."

His cell phone began to buzz in the middle of his explanation. "Garcia—have you got those articles?"

Reid punched the speakerphone button so JJ could hear. "—were absolutely right, my Junior G-man!" They heard typing. "The damage caused by LaRoe's apprehension was bad for business in Gadot because he was _best friends_ with Warren's father—there was even a scandalous rumor that the cops slipped him the means to hang himself while he was in custody in Helena."

JJ nodded. "And now that the media is back…"

"Warren is taking care of business," Chloe finished.

"So he's—" JJ slowly put the pieces back together. "Warren's the UnSub."

Reid rocked back on his heels, nodding. "And we don't know where he is."


	7. Chapter 7

The ride was mostly rural, mountain roads, and took way too long. Because the cell reception was spotty at best, Hotch had Garcia repeatedly trying both Gilman's house and work phone, sending him intermittent text messages every fifteen minutes. Each one was the same. "Nothing yet."

Jenson scattered gravel at the end of Gilman's long driveway, whipping the police cruiser around and to a stop. Morgan tore out of the backseat like a lion, sprinting to the battered front door.

"Gilman! It's the F.B.I.! Open up!" he yelled, pounding on the chipped green paint. Prentiss was close behind, backed against the metal 4250 on the front of the wooden house.

"Nobody's heard from him since the story was posted," Hotch informed Jenson. "We're certain he's in immediate danger."

Morgan shouted for Gilman once more before smashing his black boot through the thin wood. He launched into the front room, gun drawn.

"We need an ambulance," Hotch barked to Jenson upon entering the doorway, "now!"

Gilman lay on the carpet, in a pool of his own blood, a .22 entry wound clearly visible in his left temple. There were no signs of a struggle—evidence that Gilman either knew his attacker, or that the UnSub was a symbol of authority…like a police badge.

"Clear!" Morgan called, moving through the kitchen.

"Clear!" Prentiss echoed, coming down the front staircase. "Hotch, he's not here."

"He's cold," Jenson said, removing his fingers from the place where Gilman's pulse should have been and looking up at the two agents. "I'd put his death no less than a few hours ago."

"Where's he headed, then?" Morgan asked, replacing his gun its holster and running a hand across the top of his head.

"To the only other writer who's focused on this case," Hotch said, his eyes widening slightly and meeting Morgan's. "How long will it take to back to the station?"

"Wait a second," Jenson stood up. "The ambulance and coroner won't be able to tell where the driveway is on this road. We've got to wait to flag them down."

"We don't have that time," Morgan said calmly and taking out his phone.

"If we call Reid and JJ, maybe they can—" Prentiss trailed off, looking frantically from Hotch to Morgan.

"How long will it take for the ambulance to get here?" Hotch persisted.

Morgan clapped his phone shut angrily. "No damn service out here."

"Maybe an hour, hour and a half or so," Jenson said, staring at Gilman's body and shaking his head. "Why?"

Hotch's voice was grave. "Because Chloe's now the one in immediate danger."


	8. Chapter 8

"There's no word from Hotch or anyone yet," JJ said, checking her phone for the fifth time in what seemed like a minute.

"What should we do?" Reid asked, rocking back in a chair. Chloe glanced up at him, then returned to writing in her composition notebook.

JJ shook her head. "Just wait, I guess." They sat in anxious silence for a few moments, the scratching of Chloe's pen the only sound. Reid jumped when JJ's phone vibrated loudly on the table. She excitedly grabbed it, discerned the caller, and crinkled her forehead. "It's Garcia."

Opening her phone, she immediately switched it to speakerphone. "What's the update, Garcia?"

"How many are with you, Jayge?"

JJ surveyed the table. "It's just me, Reid and Chloe; everyone else went to Gilman's about an hour ago. Why?"

"There was a police frequency signal from Gilman's address a few minutes ago—there's a dead body."

JJ's eyes closed. "Did they give any details?"

Garcia typed something. "Gunshot wound to the head, middle-aged male…it's Gilman."

She pinched at the bridge of her nose. "Okay. Is there any other activity?"

"Nada," Garcia said sadly. "Either they went on a chase through the woods or the scumbag wasn't there when they showed up. I can't reach any of them."

"Neither can we," JJ said, wandering to the drinking fountain in the entryway for a sip of water. "It might help to release the information about Warren to the press, but I don't want him to snap and kill again." She sighed, bending to drink the water. "I need Hotch to make that call."

As she turned around, JJ saw Warren just inside the plate glass door, holding his gun between her eyes and his fingers to his lips. The blood drained from her face, and her heart began to thud slowly and heavily in her chest.

"Get off the phone," he said softly, "now."

"Garcia," JJ said, feigning complete composure, "I've gotta go. Reid's got something about the case."

"Ciao, my lovelies!" she said cheerfully. JJ winced.

"W—what do you want?" she whispered.

"Give me your gun," Warren said, not taking his eyes off the middle of her forehead. "We're gonna go in there, nice and easy, and you're gonna tell that Poindexter to give me his gun, too."

She handed over her pistol shakily. "O—okay."

He moved to behind her, holding the revolver steady against her right temple. Prodding her with his right thigh, Warren and JJ moved into the main portion of the police department.

"Tell him," Warren urged whisperedly as they neared the conference table where Reid and Chloe sat, their backs to JJ and her captor. "Take his gun."

"Reid," JJ said evenly, surprising herself with the calmness of her own voice. He turned automatically at the sound of his name, his face falling slack when he saw Warren, and his gun. He rose slowly, showing Warren his palms. When nobody spoke, Chloe glanced to where Reid was facing, and froze.

"Off—Officer Warren—what are you doing?" he asked nervously. "W—why not let JJ go? We can talk about this."

"Tell him!" Warren hissed, pressing the barrel harder against her forehead.

"Reid," she said, blinking furiously to stifle the urge to cry, "put your gun on the floor, and slide it over here."

"All right," he said, nodding and slowly bringing his right hand to the holster on his belt. "Here it is—nobody wants to hurt you, Warren." He set the pistol gingerly on the floor at his feet, and kicked it toward JJ. "N—nobody has to get hurt."

Warren released JJ to bend down and retrieve Reid's gun. "Try anything fancy, and I'll blow your brains out," he said gravely. When he stood, he pushed her lightly, and she went to stand next to Reid.

Chloe sat transfixed in the chair, her entire right arm hanging stiffly over the paper. Her pale blue eyes were wide, and her mouth was hanging open slightly.

"It should have been fine," Warren growled, moving slowly toward the three of them. JJ gripped Reid's upper arm tightly, her nails digging into his fair skin. "People should have been _thanking_ me for what I was doing."

He neared Chloe, who stared up at him from her chair. "Then not only did the F.B.I. come here to drag this crap through our town _again_, but they brought _you_." She swallowed hard. "They brought their very own leech."

Chloe brought her hands up, tried to speak. "I—I didn't—"

Warren cut her off by grabbing the front of her green polo, lifting the slight girl off the chair. "_Shut up!_" he barked, using his strong forearm to bring the shaking teenager closer to his face. She struggled to maintain footing, and closed her eyes tight. "People like you ruin _everything_!" He thrashed the wad of shirt he held in his fist. "Dragging up other peoples' dirty laundry—making it fit whatever story you're peddling—you're all pieces of shit."

He released her roughly, and she fell back into the chair. She swallowed again, trying to stave the tears from spilling over.

"David LaRoe was a hero. He rid the world of scumbags—people nobody would bat an eyelash at if they ended up dead." He looked hard at Reid and JJ. "Just like I am."

He turned to Chloe, cocking the revolver and lowering it toward her. "And you're next."


	9. Chapter 9

Reid stepped forward. "Officer Warren, she didn't do anyth—"

"It's none of your business," the irate cop spat, turning on Reid. "You have no _idea_ what people like her," he thumbed at Chloe, "or Worth, or Gilman have done to me, or done to my father."

"But killing them isn't the answer," Reid said hurriedly, stepping toward him. "I—if you go to jail for murder, nobody will ever hear about what horrible things they did to you."

"He's right," JJ said, shifting her weight toward the two men. "All anyone will see is that you murdered a 19-year-old girl."

Warren looked hard at the two of them, and back at Chloe, who had began a minuscule tremble.

"Nobody would miss her, you know," Warren said evenly. "If she had a family, she wouldn't be your roadie. If she had friends, she wouldn't spend her time drudging up crap about other people for entertainment."

"We would miss her," Reid said, "and once the world finds out about what you did—"

"Nobody would miss you much, either," Warren cut him off. "Either one of you," he glanced at JJ. "Blondie's nothing but the leak to the press, and I've seen the way the rest of those F.B.I. guys look at you." Reid swallowed hard. "You annoy them. You're weak." He stepped toward the thin agent. "They'd find another socially inept geek soon enough."

Reid shook his head weakly. "I—I don't—"

"You just don't realize how useless you are," Warren said, nudging Reid's chest with the cold barrel of the revolver. "Once you're gone, nobody will even notice that there's no human encyclopedia drabbling in the corner."

In the split second that it took Warren to consider what he was about to do, Chloe leapt off the chair, wrapping her thin arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Warren screamed, and in his moment of panic, Reid darted aside, pushing himself and JJ out of the path of the gun. Warren whipped it around as he struggled against the girl on his back, cursing and roaring as she tightened her elbow around his throat and closed her teeth around his left earlobe.

Warren gathered his bearings somewhat, and quickly slammed backward into the brick wall. Chloe let out a pained grunt, but didn't let go. Warren's left hand grabbed a fistful of Chloe's dark, shiny hair, and he yanked hard to distract her enough to let go. When it failed, he dropped the revolved in an attempt to free his throat from her bony elbow, and slammed her against the wall again—hard.

The force caused her head to fall back, and when the base of her skull made audible contact with the brick, her grip loosened. Warren spun around quickly, drawing Reid's gun out of his belt and turning on the semi-conscious girl.

"Don't do it, Warren," Reid said, standing painfully close to the officer as he had somehow gotten ahold of the discarded revolver amid the chaos. "Drop the gun, and put your hands on your head." JJ crawled over to Chloe behind Warren, and began checking for vital signs.

"Ain't nobody gonna care if she never gets up," he said, wiping spittle off his mouth with his free hand.

"If you take one step toward her," Reid said, moving closer to the girl, "I'll have to kill you, and nobody will be here to tell your side of the story."

Warren paused, considered this. "And if I go out quietly, I'll be able to tell everybody what really happened?"

"I swear to you," Reid said quietly, "if you put the gun down, your story will be told."

Warren looked away, squinted slightly, and made his decision. With a hollow thud, Reid's pistol landed on the floor a couple feet away.

"And JJ's gun," Reid reminded him. A second thud echoed in the tiny police department as Reid quickly moved over and handcuffed Warren, guiding him over to the chairs that he had begun to wrestle with Chloe near only moments earlier.

Chloe sat up, bringing her hands to her head. "Oh, my God."

JJ rubbed the girl's shoulder. "Chloe, why would you do something like that?"

"Yeah," Reid said admonishingly, squatting down beside the two of them. "You could've been killed—what's the matter with you?"

She gave a small smile. "Never let someone tell you you're useless."

Reid smiled back, reaching forward to squeeze her hand in gratitude. "Thanks a lot, but I'm going to go call 911 now." She nodded minutely, and he stood to brandish his cell.

"You know, I don't think prisoners can publish their own stories," JJ mused to Reid from the floor.

"Yeah, I think you're right," Reid looked over at the murderer. "Maybe you can hire a writer to come in and tell your story for you."


	10. Chapter 10 TW: Suicide

**Eight months later**

Reid set the coffee gently on the café table before reaching for his phone. "It's Chloe," he said, his eyebrows crinkling.

Morgan leaned forward, his chin resting on his knuckles. "She gave the final draft to Hotch yesterday."

"I know," Reid muttered, opening his phone. "Hello?"

"Is this Agent Spencer Reid?" asked a voice he didn't know.

He eyed Morgan. "…Yes, who is this?"

"This is Sylvia Marshall—I'm Chloe's mom."

"Is something wrong?"

There was a pause. He heard a sharp intake of breath, a quiet sob. "Mrs. Marshall?"

Morgan put his arm down. "What's wrong?"

"Mrs. Marshall?" Reid asked again, pushing the Speakerphone button.

"I'm sorry, Agent," Sylvia said, her voice congested. "Chloe—Chloe is dead."

"What?" Reid asked. He was suddenly very conscious of his heartbeat, slow and heavy. Morgan, staring hard at him across the small table, sat up straighter and crinkled his forehead. Reid shook his head. "Wh—how?"

Sylvia muffled a second cry with her hand. "Sh—she killed herself." She sucked in a desperate breath. "Last night."

Reid brought his right hand up to stabilize his forehead. His heart thudded harder. The blood in the end of his fingers seemed to thicken. The air he was breathing didn't seem to contain oxygen. The more he tried to inhale, the less it seemed to work.

Morgan leaned forward, placing his head in his hands. His eyes closed.

"Mrs. Marshall, I—I'm so sorry." Reid said, willing his voice not to choke.

"Th—there was a note," Sylvia said, using all her strength to maintain composure. It wasn't working. "It—it said—it said, 'Reid will understand.'"

Morgan's head snapped up. He squinted his eyes at Reid, who bit his lower lip and was trying hard not to cry in front of his coworker.

"I—I looked you up in her phone…" Sylvia trailed off. "I don't—I don't know what to do."

Reid stared openmouthed at his cell. He looked questioningly at Morgan, who shook his head minutely.

"Mrs. Marshall," Reid said quietly, his voice wavering. "I'm—I'm very, truly sorry…" he cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair, "I'll look into it and—and see what I can do to help."

"Thank you, Agent," Sylvia said, her voice shuddering with grief. "Thank you so much."

After she had hung up, Reid stared at Morgan. "What does that mean—'Reid will understand'?"

Morgan shook his head. "I don't know, Kid."

"She—she was here yesterday," Reid brought his hands up. "We saw her. She—she could've asked us for help, said something…"

Morgan bit his lip, trying to think of something to say. "I know, Kid…it's just as much a shock to me as it is you." He shook his head, pushing his chair back. "I mean, there were no signs, no warnings…"

Reid let his head fall into his hands. Morgan walked to his chair, squeezed his thin shoulder. "C'mon, Reid," he said thickly, "we've got to tell Hotch."

Reid nodded, not moving.

Morgan rubbed his back soothingly. "C'mon."

After a few moments, Reid pushed his own chair back. The scraping of the metal legs on the tiled floor seemed a lot louder than it had when they sat down.

Morgan wrapped his strong arm around Reid's shoulders. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah—yeah, I'm fine," Reid said, nodding and walking out of Morgan's grip. He turned back when Morgan didn't follow him. "What's the matter?"

Morgan stood for a moment. "You sure you're okay?"

Reid shifted his weight, swallowed. "I'm—I'm taking a page from Prentiss' book. Compartmentalizing."

"You don't have to do that, Reid, We all deal with things differently," Morgan said, taking a step toward him. "If you need, you know, time—"

"I'm fine, really," Reid said, resituating his signature leather messenger bag. "We gotta—we gotta go tell Hotch."


	11. Chapter 11

"What's the matter?" Prentiss asked when the two walked stiffly into the B.A.U. Neither answered. Morgan looked anxiously at Hotch's office door, which was open. Reid walked swiftly to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him instead of letting it swing closed.

"What's going on?" JJ asked seriously as she saw Morgan lean against Prentiss' desk, dropping the large stack of file folders atop an empty table.

"There's something I gotta tell you guys." Morgan said, folding his arms across his chest.

"What's wrong with Reid?" Prentiss probed.

"What does she mean," Hotch asked, appearing just outside the bullpen, his hands on the dividing railing, "what's wrong with Reid?"

Morgan looked up at Hotch, eyes sad. "Where's Rossi?"

"Right here," he said, floating out of his own office door. "Where's Reid?"

"He's in the bathroom," Morgan said, running a hand across his scalp as Garcia appeared out of her lair. "Something happened…you all need to hear it."

The team waited expectantly. "Chloe…" he struggled to form the words. Garcia put a supportive hand on his shoulder. "Chloe's mom called Reid's cell just now."

Hotch walked slowly down the stairs, Rossi following close behind. "Morgan, what's the matter?"

"She's dead, Hotch."

Garcia brought her free hand to her mouth. Prentiss' face fell, and JJ leaned against the table she had placed the folders on to steady herself. Hotch looked at Morgan questioningly. "What happened?"

Morgan brought a hand across his chest to squeeze the one Garcia still had on his shoulder. "She killed herself, man."

Garcia pulled away to bring the remaining hand to her face. JJ folded her arms. They both began to cry. Prentiss brought a hand to her forehead. Hotch stood up straighter, Rossi's shoulders slumped.

"But she—she was just here," Prentiss said, shaking her head.

"She could have said something," JJ continued, swiping at the tears streaking down her cheek.

"Where's Reid?" Rossi asked, stepping forward.

"In the bathroom," Morgan said quietly. "Oh, yeah—" he remembered, "there was a note." He paused, giving the team a mental response time to ask _What did it say?_ "It said '_Reid will understand_,'"

Hotch nodded slightly, looking away. He bit the inside of his cheek, shifted his weight. "Hotch?" Morgan asked, startling him.

"I—" he said, his eyes snapping to the dark-skinned agent. "I need a minute." He strode quickly away.

Morgan looked at Prentiss, then at JJ, and then at Rossi. They all looked after Hotch. He went into his office, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Why?" Garcia asked, sitting down in Reid's empty chair, yanking a Kleenex out of the brown box and dabbing at her eyes. "Why would she do that?"

"I don't know, Baby Girl," Morgan said, rubbing her back. He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Someone needs to go check on him," JJ said, hitching her chin toward the bathroom.

"And him," Prentiss said, looking at Hotch's closed door.

Rossi exhaled. "I'll go talk to Hotch. JJ?" he gestured toward the bathroom. "You were with him when Chloe took down Warren. He might respond better to you right now."

JJ nodded and wiped her eyes with the Kleenex Garcia handed her, pushing her weight off the table. Running her hands through her blonde hair, she walked to the wooden door and gave a quiet _knock-knock_ on the Restroom sign. "Spence?" She waited a moment, then knocked again.

Rossi knocked twice, opening the door slowly when he heard no answer. "You all right?"

Hotch sat at his desk, head in his hands. Sitting in the middle of the polished mahogany sat Chloe's finished draft of _Profile: The B.A.U._, and on top of that sat her black-and-white composition notebook.

"Aaron?" Rossi probed as he approached the desk.

"Did I cause this?" he asked, raising his head, his eyes full of tears.

"Aaron, she took her own life," Rossi said, sitting in the chair near the window. "Nobody causes that."

"Dave, I was never anything but an ass to that kid." He shook his head, letting a hand fall onto the table. "She was nineteen, for God's sake."

"You can't—"

"Dave, I made her feel unwanted," Hotch cut him off, meeting his eyes with a desperate expression. "A burden. A nuisance. I made it perfectly clear that given my way, she wouldn't be here."

"Aaron," Rossi said, a tone of finality in his voice. "This was not your fault."

"Someone has lost a child. For no reason. At all." Rossi had no response. "Maybe if—if I had…"

"Suicide is the third-leading cause of death for children ages 15-24," Rossi said quietly. "Second on college campuses."

"If I wanted statistics, I'd drag Reid out of the bathroom," Hotch said shortly. "Please excuse me, Dave—I've got some phone calls to make."

Rossi closed Hotch's door just as quietly as he had opened it, knowing the harshness of his words wasn't directed at him. JJ still stood outside the bathroom door.

"C'mon, Spence, I know you're in there," she said exasperatedly, turning away and toward the team. "Morgan, he's not going to open the door."

Morgan uncrossed his arms, pushing himself out of his desk chair. He walked over to the door, rapping quickly and loudly with his knuckle. "Reid. Get out here."

When nobody answered, Morgan tried the handle. It didn't budge, and he looked incredulously back at the others. "Reid, if you don't unlock this door I'm going to kick it down, don't think I won't."

The unit was silent for a moment, punctuated by the tacit _click_ of the door lock being turned. Morgan exhaled, then strode inside.

Reid was sitting on the floor against the far wall, elbows resting on his knees. The toes of his black Converse were touching one another, and his eyes were rimmed with tears.

"How's that compartmentalizing going?" Morgan asked, sitting down beside him in the tiny bathroom. Reid didn't answer. "Look, man, we all feel bad—awful, even."

"I should have seen it coming," he croaked.

Morgan inhaled deeply. "Reid, we're all profilers. None of us saw it coming. Why should you have?"

"Because we—we had that conversation on the plane. After I read her book," he looked at Morgan, "her book is all about suicide, a—and she talked about Sylvia Plath…it was all there," he looked away, at the door again, "I just didn't see it."

"Reid, you can't think like—"

"She didn't feel like she fit in with humanity," he said, running both hands through his hair, "or like anyone would miss her, because she didn't belong anyway." He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand, sniffling. "But I—I understood that. I get that." He looked at Morgan again. "I should have said something, done something…to let her know that she—she could talk to me."

"Reid," Morgan said, shifting his weight to face the other agent, "she's gone. Anything you could have done doesn't matter now."

"But it's my fault," he said, standing up. "It's my fault, Morgan! I should have seen, I—I should have done something!" He turned, his hands either side of his head.

"Reid!" Morgan said, raising his voice and grabbing Reid's bony shoulders. "It's too late. She's gone."

"You don't get it!" Reid cried, trying—unsuccessfully—to break free of Morgan's grip. "I _did _understand! I could have stopped her!"

"But you didn't!" Morgan yelled, shaking his shoulders. "She's gone, and nothing you can do will ever change it!" Reid pushed him again, tried again to break free, but Morgan only held him against the wall. "Reid, you know as well as I do that you can't stop someone who wants to take their life. Better, even."

A tear spilled over Reid's left eyelid. "But you don't—"

"If you want to blame yourself for something you can't change and didn't cause, be my guest," Morgan said harshly. "If you want to be Gideon, go ahead," he continued, pushing Reid's right shoulder into the wall on the word _go_. "But you know inside that giant brain of yours that it _wasn't _your fault, and that no matter what happened, she's still _gone_."

He let go of the skinny agent, exhaling loudly. Reid backhanded the stray tear with his right hand, sniffling again. Morgan tore a foot-long piece of toilet paper off the role inside one of the stalls and handed it to him. "Now let's go, Kid."


	12. Chapter 12

Hotch sat at his desk, the silence pressing against deafeningly his eardrums. The security fluorescents flickered outside his office door, the digital clock's 2:17 a.m. a harsh bright red on the filing cabinet by the door.

His right hand ran up and down the black typeface of Chloe's draft. He had read through the entire thing twice now. The only thing that had stayed verbatim from the composition notebook was one of the first passages. He'd lost count of how many times he'd read that part, the pages softening and weathering in his fingers.

_It's been said that anyone can be a father, but it takes a special person to be a dad. A father will take you to the doctor when you're sick, but a dad will stay up, holding your hair back, until 2 a.m. A father will teach you how to drive, but a dad will teach you how to put air in the tires and always have a pair of jumper cables for your trunk._

_ Aaron Hotchner is a dad. Not only to his young son, Jack, but to his entire team. As the unit chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, he has a responsibility that can be the difference between life and death. As such, he weighs every decision as though he were Atlas. Nothing is lackadaisical, nothing is overlooked, and nothing is glossed over. A father is suspicious, but a dad is unscrupulous. _

_He hovers protectively over strong, able-bodied Derek Morgan and makes sure that Dr. Spencer Reid, sweater-vest clad child prodigy, gets the respect he deserves. He doesn't favor Emily Prentiss or Jennifer Jareau over the boys, but never lets anyone else sell them short, either. He guards them as he would young Jack, against outsiders and those with malicious intent, both of whom he deals with on a nearly constant basis. _

_Those who know him say he's stiff, has no sense of humor, and rarely blinks. Those who really know him say that, underneath the icy composure and the constantly scowling eyebrows, Hotch is a cheeky smile and a pair of jumper cables. _

The notebook page where the passage ended was stiff, now crinkled and dotted with dozens of tiny saltwater circles. He had made the calls and okayed his decision for the publication with all the right people, but he was stuck on that one passage, the heartfelt words left behind by someone who had every reason not to print them.

He closed his eyes, bracing a hand on each temple to hold his head up. Just like Haley, she was gone. Just like Haley, it was too late.

And just like Haley, it was his fault. Not directly, but if not for him, they both might not have died.

Finally, he rose slightly, and rested his chin in his left hand, turning to a blank page toward the end of Chloe's dilapidated notebook. He selected a black ballpoint pen from the handleless coffee mug on the upper right-hand corner of the desk.

As the clock silently struck 3 a.m., he began to write.


	13. Chapter 13Final

"Th—thanks for coming with me, Morgan," Reid said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as they walked through the front door of the tiny funeral home.

"No problem, man," Morgan said, wrapping a thick arm around Reid's shoulders. "Let's just make it quick, okay?" When Reid looked at him questioningly, Morgan explained. "I've never been good at calling hours."

Reid nodded, leaning over to sign the guestbook in his uneven scrawl. "I just want to say something to her mom, and then we can get out of here." Morgan nodded stiffly, looking around at the grief-stricken people hovering about in the cramped entryway.

"Mrs. Marshall?" Reid asked, approaching an older woman in the greeting line. "I'm Spencer Reid."

She closed her eyes, taking his extended hand with both of her own. "So good to meet you, Agent," she said, her voice wavering. "I wish the circumstances were better."

Reid nodded, gesturing to Morgan. "This is Agent Derek Morgan—he worked with Chloe as well."

Morgan lightly took her hand. "My sympathies," he said softly.

"I—I wanted to send my condolences," Reid continued, "Chloe was an exceptional girl."

"She was," Sylvia said, "she really, really was." She dabbed at her eyes with a well-used tissue. "Have you given any thought to the…the note?"

Reid rocked back on his heels. "Somewhat. I—I understand what she was feeling but not why she did it." He scratched at the back of his neck with his hand. "I think she felt that she had told all she had to tell."

"But that's not true," Sylvia said, shaking her head.

"I know, ma'am," Reid took her hand, "which is why I don't understand."

Sylvia nodded. "Would it be all right, if I…if I called you some time, to talk about it?" She looked around, at the line of people that was accumulating behind them. "After…after everything dies down."

Reid nodded. "That's fine, Mrs. Marshall."

"We should go," Morgan intervened, looking at first the line, then at Reid.

"Of course, of course," Sylvia said, dabbing at her eyes again. "Oh, one more thing," she said as they turned to leave. "Will you tell Aaron Hotchner that I really appreciate his foreward?"

"His what?" Reid asked.

"For the book, Chloe's book." Sylvia reached behind herself and retrieved a manuscript proof off the endtable. "He was here earlier, and gave me this—said they'd just printed it that morning."

"Could I see it?" Reid asked, receiving it from her outstretched hand. Turning the first page, he saw a small photograph of Chloe and a small block of text. He held it out for Morgan to read:

_The loss of a young life is always tragic. When that young life has the utmost potential and everything to gain, it is particularly painful. In our line of work, we see much carnage. But Chloe's tragedy is especially heartbreaking. Though we knew her only briefly, she will never be forgotten. And though we seem to be shrouded in darkness, it is important to remember Chloe as she lived—as a brilliant, clever, strong, and resourceful girl. Perhaps, even though she is gone, Chloe has something to teach us—that for any great work comes a darkness that must have been present within all along. And that only light can overcome that darkness. _

_-Aaron Hotchner, B.A.U. Unit Chief_

"**As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being." –Carl Jung**


End file.
